My hands are of your colour; but I shame
To wear a heart so white!
There she stands—the same being, successful in her guilt—in the full possession of all for which the work was done—unpunished—undiscovered—unquestioned—disturbed by nothing but the eye of God. Behold guilt with all that earth can give of power and exemption—the terrified maid on one side—the watchful doctor on the other—herself confessing, under a torture more awful than that of the rack, the bloody secret of her soul, and the physician taking notes of what falls from her lips! Behold guilt! in its castle—surrounded by its guards, with all the sources of earthly pleasure at its command.
Doct. Hark! she speaks. I will set down what comes from her, to satisfy my remembrance the more strongly.
Lady. Out, damned spot! out, I say!—One, two; why, then ’tis time to do’t. Hell is murky!—Fie, my lord, fie! a soldier, and afraid? What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account? Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?
Doct. Do you mark that?
Here is the dream of the past scene on the night of the murder mingling with the subsequent stings of conscience—hours and days floating through her distempered imagination at the same moment—the cruel purpose, the atrocious execution—the actual presence of the fatal event, with its unrelenting determination, and guilty hope and the trembling terrors of future remorse and fear—all together—all crowding at once upon the mind, in those capricious fragments of reality which unite with such terrible probability in the solemn hour of sleep. The “damned spot” is the first—the predominant and blasting thought; the horrible fixed phantom preying on her mind. Wash as she may, the red trace will not out. She has continued in this “accustomed action with her” a quarter of an hour at a time—striving and striving—rubbing and rubbing—and dwelling upon the hour of her guilt, till the constant contemplation of it has driven her mad. Amid all the charms, the long-promised, dearly-prized charms of royalty—with the golden round at length upon her brow—at all hours of the day and night—in the sunshine and in the darkness—in solitude and at the banquet—this spot, this “damned spot,” is there—always there—and so she is destined to go on, vainly rubbing and rubbing, to her grave.
One, two.
She hears over again the clock telling the hour of that dreadful night.
Why, then ’tis time to do’t.